The Sculptor and the Statue
by EagleFeathersInMyHair
Summary: The story of Pygmalion and Galathea with Sesshoumaru as the artist and Kagome as his most revered work, told in two chapters. *Part 2 of Sess/Kag in Mythology Series*
1. He Gave Her Life

Oh, shopping. How thou dost inspire me.

But seriously. I wanted to do another of these before the start of semester on Tuesday, but I couldn't work up the motivation until I got to the nail salon. It was then that my fingers started itching to type, just as I caught a glimpse of a little stone replica of a Greek statue. It was a woman with a man kneeling at her feet, like he was proposing. And POP! Idea. Of course, I had to wait for the paint to dry to type in ideas on my phone.

So, thank upcoming semester and the shopping/manicure combo for this:) I plan to do Orpheus and Eurydice next, and eventually Cupid and Psyche. If people are still enjoying by then, maybe Narcissus and Echo… if I can get it to work?

Check out a similar story I did, called "The Hunter and the Huntress"… the story of Orion, only Sess/Kag!

.com/fanfiction/story/4347/1

If you're reading on IYFF or FFNet, just click my penname and the link to the story will be on my page.

This is another where I'm more inclined to leave out their Japanese names and just give the characters of the real myth their personalities and such. Though I think this is a bit OOC. Oh well.

Standard disclaimer applies!

She was perfect. To me, she was everything that a woman should be. I knew it was absurd, the sort of thing a fool would do.

But I couldn't help it. I would let no one tell me that I was wrong, that she was not perfection set in purest ivory. I soon found that the rebukes of others would not be a problem, however, for I told no one about my secret love.

I created her. I, the Sculptor of Cyprus, carved the epitome of a woman by my own hand. And I found that she meant more to me than any woman of flesh and blood.

This was certainly not my intention. I did not sit down one day and decide to carve a woman to love from a giant lump of ivory.

It was one of those things that just happened.

I had spent another day watching those poor wretches, poor excuses for women groveling on the streets. They solicited customers without a hint of remorse, not a shred of disgust for their own profession.

They were the Propoetides, women of no respect or standing. These females – for I shall not call them women – had been cast down into their current state by the goddess Aphrodite. They had committed horrid acts of blasphemy, earning the wrath of the goddess of love. The Propoetides denied the divinity of Aphrodite, going so far as to even make little of her beauty, to mock her husband Hephaestus and lover Ares.

Enraged, Aphrodite stole from them their dignity and beauty, cursing them never to love. They were made to be the most commonly used whores of Cyprus. Just the sight of them, their boys' tunics hiked up to well above their knees to show off their 'wares' was enough to disgust me. I found the bile rising in my throat when they were near. I avoided walking past these women, for they seemed little more than scum. They lacked the things that I held most dear: respect, dignity, and honor.

It was after my first encounter with these used husks charading as members of the fairer sex that I began to see the flaws of others.

My suddenly clearer vision did not apply only to females; I saw through the facades projected by men and women alike. This was when I lost my taste for humanity, preferring instead to keep to myself, avoiding relationships at all costs. I threw myself into my art and denied myself the pleasures of the flesh. I did not want to be taken in by a deceptive woman only to find later that she was not who she portrayed herself to be.

Sculpting became my life. I have no words to describe the joy, the utter satisfaction of watching pure alabaster stone come to life beneath my hands. I created things, I gave birth to everlasting beauty carved in shining stone. Every morning I would rise to greet the dawn, rushing to break my fast so that I may finally tie back my long hair, reach for my tools, and begin work on a new piece of life.

Every day was my own little adventure. I was always wondering what I would come up with next. I never planned out what I would sculpt; the final product was just as much of a surprise to me as it was to anyone else. My deft fingers flew over my medium, trimming a bit here, sanding here, lopping off a large chunk here.

Then came the day, many months after I had sworn to never become involved with a deceitful woman, that I made her. I gave life to a beautiful woman of ivory.

I once more found myself stunned by the outcome. What had prompted me to sculpt this? Had I not risen to a place above the need of a man for a woman?

Apparently not. Because there she stood, kind, sightless eyes staring into mine. For a split second I caught myself wishing she were real, wishing she were made of flesh and blood, wishing that she had a pulse and _warmth_.

But not to worry. I caught myself and scoffed inwardly at the idea.

Life went on, much as it always had. For some reason I could not (or perhaps, would not) explain, the statue of the woman was not moved to the storeroom with all of my other creations. She sat there silently, gazing upon me as I worked. Her eyes seemed to follow me, as if they admired the way my hands flew over the stone as I tamed it, as it took the shape I desired.

Nothing changed. Nothing was different. My routine was the same. The only addition was the statue, watching my every move. Each day before I set to work, I would polish any dust from her pale ivory body. And each day after my work was finished and a fine layer of grit coated everything in the room, I would give her another gentle sweep with a cleaning rag.

I often mused to myself about this seeming presence, albeit completely silent and unmoving, that had invaded my home.

I would occasionally stop in my work to gaze upon her. She was perfection. I suppose that should have been more of a boast concerning my own ego, but it quickly turned into a compliment for her.  
Still, there could be found no flaws with my statue. She had curves in all of the right places, though she still retained a slender body type. Her legs seemed long enough to span a mile. I pictured her with inky black hair that sparkled in the sun to complement her ivory skin. An almond-shaped pair of bright blue eyes stared back in my imagination, so like the clear night sky that it was a surprise to find no stars twinkling deep within them.

It was when I had her appearance thoroughly mapped out in my mind that I came to a full realization about just how childish I was being, playing with imaginary friends. She was a bit of ivory, nothing more. This assurance calmed my mind and I was thankful, though at the same time it felt like a denial.

Truth be told, she didn't seem like ivory. She didn't have the cold, detached quality that most statues have. She always had a fond look upon her face, the slightest hint of a smile turning up the corners of her generous mouth, her full bottom lip in a perpetual pout. I always sensed life from her. It was like she would suddenly jerk into the movements of a stretch, giving a little sigh of satisfaction at the way it made her weary bones feel after so much time unmoving. All of the times I had company, I expected her to chime in with a light tinkle of laughter at a bit of witty humor.

As laughable as I knew all of this was, I wasn't laughing. She just seemed so real. I mentally berated myself every morning as I tended her, speaking the occasional thought aloud as if waiting for her approval.

This statue of mine would have made a rather pleasant companion, I decided with a tinge of wry humor. She was quiet and listened attentively. If I came across a woman that had such an amazing capacity to refrain from interrupting me in my work, well then I may not have been quite so hesitant to enter into a relationship.

Though she was made of unyielding ivory, she fit perfectly into my little world as though she had bent herself around my needs.

My lowest point came on an ordinary day, nothing out of the norm expected.

I was very famous among the people of Cyprus. I indulged in an admittance of skill, yes, I was an incomparable artist. My works were the best to be found. It was a simple truth, not a boastful statement on my part.

On this particular day, I had sold a carving of a great animal, one of the beasts they brought from Africa. It had wrinkled grey skin and large flopping ears, its girth more than I thought possible.

The man I sold to was one of the rich; he had been buying from me for quite some time, sure to show up as soon as I finished rendering one of these sorts of animals into my chosen medium. He said he was building a stone menagerie, and while I lifted an inquiring eyebrow at his declaration in my mind, I did not tell him I thought this venture pointless. He was a high-paying customer; if he wanted to waste his family's money on silly whims, so be it.

This man had brought with him many servants to cart his purchase back to his home. I counted his currency and, when all seemed to be in order, I turned and left him to it. Before I could make it all the way back into my home, however, he was calling me back to him. I didn't wish to torment myself with the presence of this addle-brained man any longer than completely necessary, but business is business. And business generally involves refraining from offending one of your most frequent customers.

We stood together and watched his purchase being carted away for a while in silence, but then he turned to me. He reached into the purse at his side and pulled out a long string of the most perfect pearls I had ever seen.

"For you," he said, "because I appreciate your assistance in the completion of my menagerie."

He handed me the pearls and I felt their weight. They were hefty, each a pure, creamy white, approximately the size of my fingernail. Each matched the next of the strand perfectly and I realized just how much money this trinket could fetch.

"You are sure?" I asked him, only because I was always hesitant taking what did not belong to me if I had not earned it. But if he thought I had earned it, I wasn't going to argue with this bit of luck.

My patron nodded enthusiastically and gestured his farewell with a wave as he followed the cart carrying his stone beast off of my property.

I watched him go for but a moment before once again returning inside.

I went and sat in my workroom, the place that had always brought me peace throughout the years. I slid the pearls from hand to hand, enjoying the cool smoothness that met the pads of my fingers. The texture, the pure flawless beauty of them reminded me of the ivory form watching me from the corner of my workroom. I turned my gaze to her motionless figure and, without a single thought in my apparently empty head, I moved toward her and draped the rope of pearls around her neck.

I suppose this was when I had reached the point of no return. I had just gifted a statue, a _decoration_, with a strand of priceless pearls.

I, the Sculptor of Cyprus, was in fact, an idiot.

Days came and went, my sanity becoming gradually more and more questionable. I treated this woman as if she were real, as if we were lovers in the greatest time of our relationship.

I berated myself in my mind, but day in and day out I admired her beauty and wished only that she were alive.

Never had I heard tell of something so absurd.

I thought perhaps I needed to go out, expand my horizons a bit. And so, on the day of the festival of Aphrodite, I ventured out into the streets.

I met a few people I knew, letting them carry most of the conversation. I was never one for unnecessary words.

We wandered the streets, enjoying the festival. The smell of festival food was thick in the air, laughter and shouts ringing between buildings and through the open square. We made our way to the altar of the great goddess Aphrodite and paid our respects. We made the customary offering of food we had bought just down the street at one of the many stalls set up for just that sort of thing.

When it came my turn to offer up my respect, I found myself contemplating the idea of love. What was love? Surely it was not such a simple thing as many made it out to be; poems and stories were always touting love as being something one feels at first glance, something stemmed from an admiration of beauty. I knew this was not true for – yes, I have always been this blunt – even the most unattractive of people fell in love sometimes.

When the thought of true love came to my mind, I was a bit put off to find that she came to mind. If only there was such a woman for me as the woman I felt lived in my carved ivory.

I truly felt she lived; I was an artist. Do not all artists find life in their medium? Always I have been a carver of stone and ivory, a sculptor of clay. It was and always will be my duty to bring out the true life of the medium, making it sing and breathe and _be_.

And so, kneeling at the altar of the goddess of love and beauty, I made a silent plea. Too ashamed to speak such things aloud, I mentally made a request of the goddess.

I asked her to please, if there were any woman such as the one I saw in my lady of ivory, please send her to me. I rose and backed away from the altar as the burning flames honoring the goddess roared to even greater life. Many would see this as a sign that Aphrodite looked on me with favor. I knew that it was more likely a trick of the wind.

Little did I know that Aphrodite had actually heard my plea.

I would just like to say that at the part about the whores, "Two Hookers and an Eightball" by MSI came on my iTunes. Win.

Please review!

~Siki


	2. She Gave Him Love

Sorry this is late. Life happens.

Oh, and it's official: I will be writing the stories I mentioned in the first part of this. Why is it official? I made them file folders on my computer. Yep. All titled and everything.

And I feel like I'm much better suited to these short stories than to 10+ chapter stories. So, yay! I'll have to be sure to keep the ideas coming.

PLEASE REVIEW!

Standard disclaimer applies.

It was like he knew.

It seemed he knew that I lived, that I was not simply a chunk of carved ivory. He looked at me as if he felt it, he was gentle when he wiped the dust from my limbs. He spoke to me, sometimes; how I longed to respond to his words, to let him know that I was listening and please, please don't lose hope!

But I couldn't. For I was made of ivory. I was not a real woman.

And it killed me that I couldn't be what I saw he wanted me to be.

I almost felt bad for him. He was a cynic, seeing the worst of the world. He told me of his scorn for those without honor or dignity. He told me that he refused women because he had never met a woman that respected herself enough not to throw her body at him or others. I felt bad that he knew such horrid people, that he could not see the beauty of the world.

Though I found that I felt worse for myself. I knew that I could never be the wonderful woman he described, could never make him happy as no other woman could.

I don't think anyone knew him like I did. He rarely had company aside from those that came in regards to business. He spent so much time in his workshop that I very much doubted the possibility that he was seeing anyone outside of his home.

Coming to know his mind was the greatest experience. To many, he seemed cold and detached. He acted like he couldn't give a flying rat's hindquarters about anyone but himself. In a way, this was true – he did nothing without a good reason, ungoverned by his emotions. Cool and calculating, he knew what he wanted and found a way to achieve his goals at all costs.

All this I saw from my corner of his workroom, heard in his moments of spoken thought.

From this, many would assume he was a bad person. He wasn't of bad character by any means. Any man that holds honor in such high regard cannot be truly bad, can he?

I also learned of his more endearing qualities. For instance, he hated a mess and was very organized. I thought it sweet that he needed a clean area to think, as if purity were his goal.

I saw the pride he took in his work; such great pride it was. He loved what he did and would never let anyone take it from him. I came to cherish that adorable furrow that adorned his regal brow when adding small details to his art. In truth, he had a right to be proud. He created such beautiful works. I only hoped I was as beautiful as the other creations I saw take shape under his strong, masculine hands, covered in the calluses of hard work.

From my place in the corner of the room I even learned that he had a soft spot for animals and couldn't stand to see one injured. It must have been due to his high regard for purity that he couldn't watch an innocent be punished.

A good example of this was the dog. Yes, he took in a stray dog. It was a scraggly thing, all bones and skin with no fat to speak of.

I suppose he found it one day on the street, or perhaps it found him. Either way, it came home with him, but the little white beast wasn't allowed in the workroom. Or at least that's what he said, anyway. The scruffy mutt would always find his way in, sneaking through the door at the carver's back and coming to rest quietly at his feet. He knew better than to interrupt, and when the artist was absorbed by his work, there was no way he would notice the small dog. Every day when the sculptor finished and stepped back to admire his handiwork with his cool expression and distant eyes, he would catch sight of the dog, tail wagging and ears pricked forward. Then a half-hearted but passably convincing reprimand would be issued – though evidently not a very effective reprimand – and the cycle would begin again.

I treasured the morning and night times when he would clean the grit of the day's work from my motionless body with his gentle caresses. I knew it was nothing more than maintenance to him, that I was an ornament in his house, but I came to live solely for that moment of his skin against my body.

There even came a day when he placed the most beautiful strand of pearls about my neck.

I saw something flicker in his eyes in that moment, though I've no idea what it was. It made me feel a warmth where usually there was nothing but cold stillness.

His brow creased for a split second, though not in the way that I liked. It was more of a frustrated furrow, but it disappeared in an instant, and then he was gone as well.

After that day things became strange. Yes, our routine stayed the same and the artist continued in his work. However, his eyes would flicker with that unnamed emotion when he looked at me at times. I still had no idea of quite what it meant and I didn't have a chance to study it, for the emotion fled from his eyes as quickly as it was summoned.

There came one night that perplexed me more than any other. The artist left mid-afternoon, not finishing his work for the day. He prepared to go out and I listened as the sound of his retreating footsteps grew faint.

It seemed that he was gone for such a long time, and I suppose that should have been a clue to me. I should have realized then just how attached I had become to his constant presence, with only brief intervals of absence. I wished he would hurry home from wherever it was he had gone off to.

Hours later, long after the sun had dipped in the west to take its slumber and the crescent moon rose to govern the night sky, the sculptor returned. I felt giddy with joy at the mere knowledge of his presence in the house.

Upon his return, however, he did a strange thing. The night was pitch black and warm light radiated from the flickering wick of the lamp he held in his gracefully tapered fingers. He approached me, a frustrated look of questioning in his eyes as he stared at my immobile face.

He stayed that way for a long moment. Then, the furrow he had worn more often lately came to mar his noble brow.

"Ridiculous," he whispered to the darkness.

With that, he turned and vacated the room, leaving me infinitely puzzled.

The next day, things had returned to the norm, though his vehement whisper never left my mind. I watched him from my corner of the room as I always had, though today my eyes were truly sightless – I was too deeply consumed in thought.

But then, when the sculptor left to gather more materials and a lamp to light the darkening room, a peculiar sensation came over me. It tingled over the surface of my ivory skin and heat seemed to radiate from my center.

That was when I saw him; the god known as Eros, son of Aphrodite, stood before me, a boyish grin adorning his cherubic features. He said nothing, only coming closer to bend over my hand and place a kiss upon the cold ivory. As he did so, he slipped a small band of gold around my finger, the symbol of Aphrodite's granted wish.

Instantly, the heat from within grew and grew, leaving me burning in the sinful beauty of it all. Flames licked against my skin from the inside and suddenly the air around me felt cooler than myself. It was then that the most wonderful thing occurred – I felt a steady thumping stem from my chest, sending jolts of energy through me with every beat.

Absently I noted the return of the Cypriot carver, believing he would have no idea of the strange goings-on I felt within my body.

It became apparent that my assumption was incorrect when he gave me a wide-eyed glance, placing down his materials and the lamp that cast a gentle glow over the room, sending dancing shadows into obscure corners, defying the oppressive darkness of full night.

He stepped slowly toward me, his mask of indifference once more firmly set in place. It was when he reached the space in front of me and reached out a hand to touch me that my exterior broke. Bits of ivory came to crumble around my feet as my arm whipped out to grasp his wrist.

It wasn't until I had completed this motion that I realized just how out-of-place it was.

This was nice, feeling my flesh against his. At the thought of having flesh instead of heatless ivory, I moved my right hand to a place not far from my face. Now that I recall, I suppose my mouth had taken the shape of a small 'O' and my eyes darted nervously from the tips of my fingers, down the length of my arm, and coming to scan the whole rest of my body.

It was amazing. My skin held the color of the ivory that had contained my spirit, though now with a healthy, warm, _alive_ glow. As I tilted my head down, long black hair entered my line of vision. In awe, I lifted my now-living fingers to run them through the dark tresses. It felt so good to have my hands upon my scalp and sliding easily through the waves of my hair. It ended at the curve of my slender waist and I was entranced by its shine.

I moved my arms and legs as the sculptor watched, reveling in the feel of muscles tensing beneath smooth flesh.

I lifted my eyes to see him staring down at me – for I was much shorter, my eyes level with the middle of his masculine chest – with his sparkling, gold-tinged eyes. I wondered if all humans were so calm when they saw inanimate objects come to life.

His hand rose in front of my face and, before I could really predict what was coming, a single slim digit stroked the silk of my bottom lip.

I lost it then. My knees gave out, for I was unused to having to control muscles and his action was so unexpected. I landed against his stiff form, both of us not moving at all.

Slowly, I turned my head and pressed my ear against his chest. I came to the conclusion that our hearts sang the same steady song, beating in time with one another.

She was real. She lived and breathed, and now her beautiful face was so close to mine.

It was then that she stumbled and came to rest against my chest. My back became rigid at first, for I was unsure of how to proceed. Listening to the desires of my inner conscience, I did the most simple thing, though it spoke the loudest in that moment.

I lifted my arms and wrapped them around her, burying my face in her soft black hair.

Something started that night between us. She was, for the most part, the woman I had always imagined her to be. Her innocent curiosity about the things of the world was one of her greatest charms and it warmed my heart, though I would never admit it.

I wasn't disappointed by the differences she had from the woman I imagined her to be, though. They made her who she was. One of the biggest differences I noticed, rather soon I might add, was that I had always imagined her as being quiet. I soon found that I was horribly mistaken. She was respectful of my time spent working and would often come and sit next to me as I worked, silently marveling as my medium took the desired shape beneath my hands. But that didn't mean she refrained from indulging in rambling fairly often. I can't say it was not endearing, for she seemed to take on an excited, ethereal glow when she spoke of the things she saw and smelled and felt. She would go on and on in detail about the people she met when she ventured into the square for provisions. She would bounce up and down in her joy, that vivacious love for life of hers shining through.

We spoke of the time when she was still a statue, the way she would watch every day and I would long to know her as a real woman. I came to realize that she knew my mind and heart, was able to see through my icy exterior. In an attempt to silence her I would send her the glare that never failed to stop anyone in their tracks. But her? No. She would just laugh and continue with her babbling, secure in the knowledge that I would not truly be angry. At first it bothered me, but I came to realize that anything that made her laugh could be nothing but good.

As cold as I was, it seemed we truly were blessed by Aphrodite. I had never been one to have radical emotions – never mind expressing such emotions – and I found myself caring for this woman, not entirely sure of how it happened or what exactly made my heart race and my breath hitch when I saw her.

To be with her was to be wrapped up in the whirlwind of her feelings. She had so many and she even came to expect similar emotions of me.

There came a day when, our relationship having progressed, that she looked up into my eyes and whispered, "I love you."

How could I respond to such a confession? She could never be happy with one who did not love her and tell her such things, this I did know. What I didn't know was the true meaning of love. Did I love this woman?

Before I could come to a conclusion, she pulled away from the circle of my arms. She gave a sad smile – oh, how her sadness broke my heart – and shook her head.

"You don't have to say it, if you don't want to. I know this sort of thing makes you uncomfortable, but… but I just wanted you to know that." She turned away from me and in that instant I knew.

If I let her go now, we could never be the way we had been. She would be walking away from me and I would have lost her.

Grabbing her upper arm, the limb fitting easily in the circle of my fingers, I pulled her back to me, wanting nothing more than to keep her with me forever.

"No," I said. Confusion and self-doubt flickered across her features. "No," I began to clarify, "it's not alright. It would be wrong for me to accept your declaration and not tell you that I reciprocate your feelings."

Leaning down, to her amazement, I whispered, "I love you as well."

With that statement I realized that I told no lie. I loved her and only her. She stared up at me with wide eyes and a single tear carved a wet trail way down her smooth cheek. She flung her arms around my neck and that was that.

I could finally be happy with her. I loved her in spite of – or perhaps, because of – her beautiful flaws.

I would spend eternity with this woman, once of ivory and now of flesh. I would hold her until the stars all flickered out, safe in the knowledge that things would always be as they were now.

Perfect.

Ending sucks.

I didn't want to get into this, but Pygmalion and Galathea were married and had a son named Paphos, after whom the city Paphos was named.

And I'm assuming that this story has something to do with the custom of wedding bands? Y/n/manatee?

Please review! I know, this is sooooo late. But only by, like, 6 days. Not even a week. ;)

~Siki

Oh! And please note that Eros is the Greek equivalent of Cupid.


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